


The Fallibility of Time

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:51:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a devastating turn of events reveals true feelings too late</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fallibility of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Mylar Fic June prompt 10 Words Challenge -- "Sticky"

**I  
**  
“Hurry!” Sylar yells to the front of the car.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” Matt shouts back. “I can’t fly.”

In the backseat Sylar looks down at Mohinder in his arms. Holding him close, Mohinder’s back on Sylar’s lap; panicked shallow breaths wrap around deep stilling ones. Sylar’s hands are placed over the bullet wounds that have punctured Mohinder’s chest flooding crimson blood, all coppery sickness, to the surface. Pressing down hard in a desperate attempt to stem the tide blood surges up and between his fingers coating his hands and Mohinder’s body.

Mohinder lets out a sharp gasp and Sylar’s eyes shift to meet his. “Hold on Mohinder, we’re almost there,” Sylar insists pleadingly.

Mohinder’s eyes stay on his and he moves his left hand to rest on top of Sylar’s. Focusing on each other Sylar tries to convey a false relief but the feel of Mohinder’s heart slowing down cracks through any false bravado.

Mohinder gives him a small smile.

All Sylar can do is push down harder.

 

**II**

“This is precisely why I didn’t want you two working together,” Bennet states angrily.

Sylar, still soaked in Mohinder’s blood, stalks across the room and yells, “If I’d been _allowed _to figure out teleportation I would have had him here in two seconds.”

“If you hadn’t been together this wouldn’t have happened in the first place,” Bennet argues. “You two distract each other. You’re too busy being worried if the other is okay instead of focusing on the task at hand. You get sloppy and he gets…”

Sylar seethes, as angry over the reprimand as the truth in it. But he refuses to back down and acknowledge his own part in all of this. Matt comes into the waiting room with a coffee and grimaces at the poundage of thoughts that assault his mind. Tuning them out he says, “This isn’t helping. You two need to calm down.”

Ignoring him, Bennet says to Sylar, “As of now Mohinder—if he survives—will partner with Peter and you’ll be with me.”

The definitive tone concisely says, ‘this is final.’

 

**III**

_There was a lot of damage. _

_He had a punctured lung, nicked artery. _

_The loss of blood was overwhelming. _

_Shock most likely spared him from most of the pain. _

_He fought hard. _

_The surgery went well and we were able to retrieve all of the bullet fragments. _

_He crashed on the table. _

_We did everything we could… _

_Is there anyone who should be called? _

_I’m sorry for your loss.   
_

**IV**

Sylar grips the edges of the hospital bathroom sink and looks in the mirror. His eyes are black and red, and in them he sees the fury raging below. Smears of blood from his hands mark his cheeks and forehead while his clothes cling with the stench of death to this body. Mohinder’s blood covers him nearly head to toe.

When he had come in here he had turned on the tap and listened to the water flow down the drain before turning it off. He cannot wash it away. The guilt, the responsibility—

The blood drying on his hands glues itself to his skin, a sticky refusal to let go. It breaches the barrier of his shirt and pants to attach itself permanently to his flesh.

He cannot wash Mohinder away. He does not want to.

Standing up he looks to the door and then back to his reflection. There is no one there. Dropping his head he turns around and walks away.

 

**V**

Allowed a few minutes alone in the morgue Sylar thinks he understands the concept of a soul for the first time.

Mohinder lies before him, a white sheet pulled down to his waist, and Sylar’s eyes travel along his body. Taking in every line and curve, he notes the flush of hair along Mohinder’s chest that does not mask the imperfections of the bullet holes that mar his skin.

His face is unusually serene with an expression Sylar has not seen in quite some time. Framed by dark curls he has the appearance of sleeping.

But…

There is absolutely nothing of Mohinder here. No brilliant thought process or sarcastic jabs, there is no contagious laugh or warm touch, no captivating voice or passionate anger.

A soul-less vessel, an empty container, it mocks and accuses. It urges goodbye.

Sylar rests his right hand along the side of Mohinder’s face and feels the empty coldness. Leaning forward he presses a kiss to Mohinder’s forehead and then, before he talks himself out of it or is caught by questioning eyes, he gently touches his lips to Mohinder’s mouth; something he had wanted to do for far too long but never had the guts to follow through on.

Standing back up he drops his right hand to his side and stares at the blood print he has left on Mohinder’s face.

One last look is all he allows himself.

 

**VI**

“Where the hell have you been?” Peter asks in shock at the surprise visitor in his living room.

“Thinking,” Sylar relies flatly. “Collecting.”

“You must have done a lot of it since you’ve been AWOL for three months,” Peter states. “Bennet’s going to—,”

“Bennet doesn’t matter. None of it does.”

Confusion plays out on Peter’s face. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

“You’re going to take me back,” Sylar answers.

“Take you back where?”

Sylar steps closer to Peter. “To the night he got shot—the morning of that day actually…”

“I’m not taking you into the past—,”

“Yes you are. I need one moment in time with him and none of this will matter.”

“I understand why you want to do this,” Peter says, “But messing with the past is far too risky. The consequences that play out could be far worse.”

“I don’t think you’re hearing me Petrelli,” Sylar says with the first hint of menace in his tone. “We’re going to go back or I’m going to take apart the world as we know it piece by piece; slowly, painfully, permanently,” he promises threateningly.

Peter stares in disbelief at the severity of the warning, and at his own surprise, considering whom Sylar had once been.

“You would do this for him? Even though you know he would despise you for it?” Peter asks.

“Yes.”

Peter takes a deep breath and tries to think over the different scenarios that could potentially play out from this. Finally he asks, “And it’s only one trip, one particular moment?”

Sylar nods and in his eyes Peter sees the first glimpse of something resembling hope. That it is for Mohinder is something Peter understands very well and it roots such a serious decision in something very straightforward.

“When do you want to go?” Peter eventually asks.

Sylar cracks a half smile. “Now.”   
 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Death Fic** (WINNER)
> 
> Mylar Fic Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Tearjerker**  
> **Nominated for Best Mohinder Death** (WINNER)


End file.
